Death of a Chihuahua
by John Douglas
Summary: MIDSOMER MURDERS - When Joyce Barnaby decides to join the Midsomer Art of Ancient Civilizations Society, trouble is bound to ensue. Please note that no animals were harmed in the writing of this story.
1. Chapter 1

**DEATH OF A CHIHUAHUA**

**Author's disclaimer : **_Characters and places portrayed in this story that appear in episodes of "Midsomer Murders" and/or in novels by Caroline Graham are the property of their respective copyright holders. I assert copyright of such characters, scenes and situations as are not already copyrighted. This story is written purely for enjoyment and not for profit._

**- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -**

**Chapter One**

The Midsomer Art of Ancient Civilizations Society had never seen such a turn-out for one of their lectures. All forty-eight places in the little converted Baptist Hall in Causton had been taken. The Baptists had vacated it when their numbers dropped to under ten and the local Council had taken it over, renting it out for a few pounds a night to various worthy bodies that claimed to provide educational programmes for adults.

Joyce Barnaby had been one of the first to enrol. Her knowledge of ancient civilizations was hazy, but her appetite for expanding her mind was immense, if sporadic. Tom, who was happy to see his wife engaged in some new social activity, had happily endorsed her new venture, well aware that the hum-drum drudgeries of life in Causton's C.I.D. did not satisfy her enterprising spirit. She chose a desk at the front, while the less enthusiastic attendees, most of them middle-aged ladies, chose seats further away from the lecturer's rostrum.

There was a buzz of excitement as the eminent Professor Stankiewicz strode into the room. He was a silver-haired gentleman in his forties with a thin face and long nose whose claim to fame was the concise "_Problems in the Interpretation of Babylonic Cuneiform_", which had sold several hundred copies, mostly to university libraries, and which had earned him his professorship at Oxford.

Professor Stankiewicz sat down, smoothed his already smooth grey jacket and spotted tie, and took a sip of water from the glass provided on his desk, while some of the late arrivals now made an appearance, rather out of breath, including a woman of about thirty-five with red cheeks and dishevelled hair, carrying a plastic carrier bag, who chose the desk next to Joyce, as it was about the only desk left unoccupied.

"Only just managed to get here," she said breathlessly to Joyce as she swung the carrier bag onto the desk, where the contents made a loud _clunk_.

"Hello," said Joyce with her wide smile, "I'm Joyce."

"I'm Arleen," said the new arrival, trying to brush some of her hair behind her ears, where it did not stay, "What a lot of people!"

"It's very popular," agreed Joyce. "Do you live in Causton?"

"Oh, no, far too much traffic!" said Arleen. "Philip and I live in Midsomer Worthy. We like village life."

"So do I," said Joyce reflectively, "but Tom - "

Professor Stankiewicz stood up and said in a heavy Polish accent "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the Midsomer Art of Ancient Civilizations Society, lecture number 24. This evening I am going to discuss the art and architecture of ancient Babylonia. There are slides provided" - and he looked hopefully towards Bill, the projectionist at the back - "and afterwards I will take questions."

"Thank heaven for the slides," said Arleen with a giggle.

The professor's lecture was interesting, if not entirely captivating. Joyce found it difficult to keep her eyes open, not least because she did not understand a lot of the words that the professor used. She opened her eyes wide when the first of the slides was shown, but after ten views of the Hanging Gardens from different angles she found that even the slide-show had a strangely mesmerising effect. Glancing at Arleen, she noticed that she appeared to be asleep and even to be snoring slightly. On the other side of her was a young man with long black hair who was drawing what looked like architectural plans on his notepad, embellished with various doodles.

Suddenly the monotone stopped abruptly and all the lights went on.

"Are there any questions?" asked the professor.

Everybody looked down and a few people coughed uneasily.

"Oh, I've got one!" said Arleen, who had woken up with a start. "Do you think this is worth anything?" and she drew out from the carrier bag on her desk a large metal pot with curious protruding wings around the sides.

"If you want me to value something," said the professor with distaste, "I suggest you talk to me _afterwards_."

"Oh, right-oh!" said Arleen and was cheerfully stuffing the object back into the carrier bag when Joyce asked "Where did you get that?"

"Philip got it at a jumble sale," said Arleen. "Two pounds it was. I reckon it would make a good vase."

"It's certainly very pretty," said Joyce.

"Philip thinks it might be worth something. That's why I'm here, really. The professor will know if it's complete rubbish."

A gentleman from the Midsomer Art of Ancient Civilizations Society stood up from the rear of the hall and made a short speech thanking Professor Stankiewicz profusely for his fascinating talk, at which the assembled art-lovers clapped loudly and started to disperse. Arleen and Joyce approached the eminent academic somewhat hesitantly and found that a group of five or six, including the doodler from the other side of Joyce, had also stayed behind out of idle interest in the possible value of the curious metal pot, which Arleen now placed in front of the lecturer.

"It weighs a ton!" said Arleen to Joyce.

"Good gracious me!" said Professor Stankiewicz. "May I take a look?" His tone had become decidedly more deferential. He picked up the pot delicately and turned it over. "If I am not mistaken" - and he peered at some hieroglyphics on the base - "yes, I am certain. This is a bronze mortar and it is Hittite."

"Hittite?" asked Arleen, non-plussed.

"From what is today Turkey. I would date it at about 1400 B.C. It is extremely rare."

"Goodness," said Joyce, "you're in luck, Arleen."

"Is it … worth anything?" asked Arleen, her breathlessness returning.

"I could not put a figure on it. But I think you should insure it for at least twenty thousand pounds."

There were some murmurs of surprise and appreciation from the on-lookers and Arleen looked as if she was going to faint.

"There's a good bit of zinc in that," said the young man who had been doodling.

"Really," said the professor, "it should be in the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford. They would be very interested in acquiring it from you, Mrs - ?"

"Arleen Reece," said Arleen. "Oh, thank you, Professor, and your talk was absolutely riveting!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Philip Reece was watching a picturesque crime drama on television involving several people being murdered in outlandish ways when Arleen arrived home.

"It's worth a fortune!" she said, breathing heavily.

"How much?" asked Philip, not taking his eyes off the screen.

"Twenty grand."

"Twenty grand! We can pay off our debts, Arleen!" Philip jumped up and turned off the television.

"What have you been spending our money on?" asked Arleen, placing the Hittite mortar in the centre of an occasional table in the bay window of their comfortable home. "The gee-gees again?"

"Don't put it there, darling. You don't want to advertise it to passers-by."

"Why not? Who's to know what it's worth, anyway?"

"Well, at any rate put something over the top of it so it's not quite so obvious."

Reluctantly Arleen drew a large cotton place-mat from the drawer of the dresser at the other end of the room and draped it over the mortar. "What do you want for dinner? It's gone eight o'clock."

"Oh - I don't want any dinner. In fact, I'm going out to the pub to celebrate."

"You're not going to see that girl again, are you?"

"Don't be so jealous, Arleen. You know that finished months ago."

"So you say." Arleen bit her lip. She knew all about her husband's affairs and had forgiven him every one, but only when she was satisfied that they were over. The barmaid at the Queen's Arms had the figure that she had dreamed of when she was twenty, and she knew that Philip, though well past thirty, had the sort of sensual good looks that got attention.

"Don't wait up for me," said Philip casually as he sauntered out of the front door and into the August twilight.

Arleen was tempted to throw the heavy bronze mortar at his retreating figure, but restrained herself when she remembered its value. In any case, she thought, a thing like that could do serious damage.

. . . .

. . . .

. . . .

"How do I look?" Rose Pigott stood at the top of the stairs with her ringlets of golden hair framing her flawless features and her red lips glistening with gloss.

"Do you have to put on quite so much make-up?" asked Dennis, putting his sketchpad down on the table in the open-plan living-room of their cottage in Midsomer Worthy. "Anybody would think you wanted to pull."

"Don't be silly, Denny," said Rose, entering the room and giving a little twirl. Her dress was semi-transparent and showed off her young body to good advantage. "I've only got eyes for you."

"Yes, and that's why you married me, right? Come here, you little sauce-boat." The two embraced passionately, for all the world more like lovers than a married couple.

"How was the meeting?" asked Rose.

"So so. Nothing much in my line, I'm afraid."

"Well, you won't get any work hanging round the house all day," said Rose. "At least I'm _in _work."

"If you can call it that," said Dennis. "I'm a qualified architect, remember?" He tossed the long black hair that had fallen over his eyes back onto the top of his head.

"Yeah, well, there aren't many large-scale projects going round Midsomer Worthy," said Rose. "At this rate I'll have to do extra work." She looked at her watch. "Oh, cripes, is that the time? I'm on at nine."

_Extra work_, thought Dennis. _I wonder what she really means._

. . . .

. . . .

. . . .

It was only a few hundred yards to the Queen's Arms and Rose was there well before nine o'clock. John Coblisson, the landlord, who looked rather like a fat frog, smiled at her indulgently. "Not so busy tonight," he said - in fact there were under twenty customers - "so you can 'ave time off with lover-boy, if you like."

"Oh, Christ, is he here?" She walked up behind the bar to the corner where Philip Reece was morosely contemplating his tumbler of Scotch on the rocks. "Hi there, darling," she said.

Philip instantly brightened up. "I was hoping to see you," he said, smiling happily. "God, you're looking gorgeous tonight."

At that moment there was a commotion as a smartly-dressed lady in her sixties burst into the pub, wearing several strings of pearls and with so much white powder on her face that she resembled Elizabeth I.

"John!" she shouted. Outside could be heard the yapping of several small dogs.

"Take cover," said Rose to Philip. "It's the dog woman from across the road. I do cleaning for her during the week. She's dreadful."

"You've parked your ancient jalopy in front of my house again. Please move it."

"But it's not blocking your driveway, is it, Muriel?" asked John as he accompanied her to the door, where three diminutive dogs growled at him fiercely.

"The Prince of Zanzibar is paying me a visit first thing tomorrow morning," she said. "He's buying one of my prize chihuahuas. I don't want him to see your motor. It might put him off the sale."

John thought '_don't be ridiculous_', but merely sighed and went to move his twelve-year old Morris Cooper.

"How about it?" asked Philip, fingering a crisp fifty-pound note in his pocket. "You know I'm irresistible. I've come into a bit of money."

"Oh, well - I'll see you upstairs in ten minutes," said Rose and kissed his forehead lightly.

In order to mount the stairs Philip passed very close to the open door of the pub, where Muriel stood with the three growling guard dogs, just as John came back from moving the car.

"Not many in tonight," he said to Philip with a knowing wink. "I reckon I can deal with them all myself. Alright, Muriel?"

Without a word Muriel turned away with her Cerberus-like companions and walked across the road.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

It was half past nine the next morning and Tom Barnaby was enjoying a late breakfast of scrambled eggs on toast at home. He had not seen the need to rush into the station as so little seemed to be happening and Joyce was always pleased to have someone to talk to.

"So you didn't think much of the professor, then?" he asked, before popping a large mass of coagulated egg into his mouth.

"Well, he was _alright_, I suppose," said Joyce, "but he was rather difficult to understand."

Tom's mobile phone rang and Joyce looked displeased. "Barnaby," he said, his mouth full of egg. "Where? - When? - I'll be right over." He pressed a button and put the mobile phone back in his jacket pocket. "Sorry, Joyce, there's been a murder."

"Not again!" said Joyce.

"A Mrs Arleen Reece of Midsomer Worthy has contacted the station to say that her husband was murdered last night."

"Arleen Reece? But I know her!"

"You do, Joyce?" Tom had stood up but waited for his wife to explain.

"I was sitting next to her at the lecture. I thought she was rather nice."

"Well, Joyce, perhaps you can comfort her, if she needs comforting."

"Of course," said Joyce, turning to Tom who by now was on his way out. "Anything I can do - "

"Bye, Joycee," said Tom as he slammed the front door.

. . . .

. . . .

. . . .

Detective Sergeant Ben Jones and Dr George Bullard, the forensic pathologist, were already at the comfortable modern house in Midsomer Worthy when Tom Barnaby arrived. Bullard, in his white boiler suit, was bending over the body of a man lying on the carpet in the living-room and at first Tom could not see the extent of his injuries.

"It doesn't get any easier, Tom," he said as he straightened up. Now Tom saw that his skull had been bashed in and that a great deal of blood had soaked into the carpet. "It was a vicious attack. Skull broken in at least three places, if I'm not mistaken." A sobbing sound came from the adjacent kitchen. "Jones is in there with the widow."

"Mrs Arleen Reece?"

"That's right."

Tom stepped over the body, trying to avoid the blood, and as he did so noticed what looked like a patterned cloth place-mat, three-quarters of which was maroon with dried blood, lying beside the body. He fished a plastic evidence bag out of his pocket and handed it to George Bullard, who was already wearing gloves.

"Pick that up, would you, George?" he asked as he passed on into the kitchen where Arleen was sitting at a stripped pine table alternately drinking from a steaming mug and blowing her nose on a large handkerchief.

"It's all gone! All gone!" moaned Arleen tearfully.

"You mean your husband has gone," suggested Ben, who was standing over her with a notepad and pencil.

"Oh - well - yes, he's gone as well. But the silver - the silver's all gone."

"Arleen," said Tom gently, "where was the silver?"

"On the dresser in the living-room," said Arleen and blew her nose loudly.

"What has gone?" asked Ben, preparing to write a list.

"The set of birds - fowl, I suppose. They were all solid silver. We'd collected them over ten years."

"And - what was in this collection, Mrs Reece?"

Arleen looked up and blinked to clear her eyes. "There was a pheasant - a goose - a duck - oh, ever so many things!"

"Do you know what their value was? Were they insured?" asked Ben.

"We didn't see the need to insure them." Arleen sighed. "Oh, they were worth several thousand pounds. But not as much as the pot." She took a gulp of tea.

"What pot, Arleen?" Tom crouched down so that his face was level with Arleen's.

"The Hittite pot - mortar, I think it was called. A plain looking thing - you wouldn't have guessed it was valuable, but Professor Staniewich said it was worth twenty thousand pounds."

"Professor Stankiewicz valued it, did he? Last night?"

"Yes, that's right." Arleen sounded surprised.

"You were sitting next to my wife, Joyce."

"Oh, she's your wife!" Arleen actually smiled and Jones coughed. "She's ever so nice." She pushed some of her hair back behind her ears.

"And the mortar has also gone, has it?" asked Tom.

"Yes, it has. It was on the table in the bay window. I'd covered it with a cloth place-mat thing. Philip made me do that."

"And you went to bed before your husband came home?" said Jones, wishing to return to the essentials.

"I told you - Philip went to the pub about a quarter past eight."

"The Queen's Arms?" put in Jones.

Arleen nodded. "I went to bed about ten o'clock. I didn't hear him come home because I had taken a sleeping pill. We're in terrible debt, Inspector" - she turned to Barnaby - "and I don't know what Philip spends our money on. He's got - sorry, he had - a good job, you know, with Midsomer Life. He's a sub-editor. He has - had - contacts in Fleet Street. He has even had articles published in the Daily Telegraph." Arleen almost looked defiant.

"And you slept all the way through until half past eight this morning and when you came down you found - saw - " began Jones.

"He was there - on the floor. Dead. But he hadn't been to bed. His side of the bed was untouched and those clothes are the ones he was wearing last night. But what I first noticed was that the light was still on - and then I saw that the silver was gone."

"Is there no burglar alarm?" asked Jones.

"Oh, there is, but it doesn't work."

"And the sash window in the bay was open?" Jones sounded almost incredulous.

"Well - I don't think I left it open. Perhaps Philip opened it?"

"Perhaps he did," said Barnaby. "Tell me, apart from the unknown burglar, is there anyone you can think of who might have wanted to kill him?"

Arleen thought a moment. "I don't think so," she said slowly. "But I'm sure he went to meet that girl at the Queen's Arms. He was quite promiscuous, you know, Inspector."

"Which girl is that?" asked Ben.

"Rose she's called. She works there. He said he'd given her up, but I didn't believe him."

Tom took a card from his pocket and wrote his home telephone number on it. "If you ever want to talk to Joyce, please don't hesitate to call," he said, giving it to her. "Arleen - can you live without using the living-room for the time being, until we've finished in there?"

"I suppose so," said Arleen. "I can use the back door."

"Then, if you will excuse us - "

"Oh, thank you, Inspector!" said Arleen, instinctively taking his hand. "I feel better already!"

Disengaging himself from Arleen, Tom walked back into the living-room where George Bullard was taking various measurements of the deceased's cranium.

"Time of death, George?" he asked mechanically.

"I should say - between eleven and twelve o'clock last night," said George, straightening up and scratching the back of his head, "but we'll have to do some tests on him."

"He must have put up quite a fight," said Jones, who had followed Tom in from the kitchen. "We always tell them not to risk having a go."

"Possibly," said Barnaby. "But why did the intruder come into the room if he was already in it?"

"Perhaps he didn't," said Jones. "Perhaps Philip Reece came home and surprised him. Or else he was dragged in here after being killed."

"Or he knew him and came home with him - or her," said Barnaby as he examined the carpet by the doorways of the kitchen and the hall. "There's no sign of blood here. George, go over it with forensics, could you?"

George Bullard grunted.

"There's been a spate of burglaries in Midsomer villages recently," said Jones. "Uniform are on to it."

"But not involving murder," said Tom. "And how did the burglar know what the Hittite pot actually was?"

"Maybe he was at the lecture when that professor valued it," suggested Ben.

Tom looked thoughtful. "You've got a point, Jones. I think I should have a word with Professor Stankiewicz. And as it's the only name Arleen could provide, you go to the Queen's Arms at lunch-time and see if you can speak to Miss Rose."

"Yes, sir," said Ben.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

"Why can't I speak to Professor Stankiewicz, sir?" asked Barnaby.

Doctor Irwin Macpherson, the Pro-Vice-Chancellor who had been put up by Oxford University to deal with the police, shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "There is a small problem with Professor Stankiewicz," he said. "In fact, we don't know where he is."

"But isn't he one of your lecturers?"

"Oh, yes - well, he was, up until a few weeks ago. But then he just - " (the Pro-Vice-Chancellor waved his right arm in the air) " - disappeared. His landlady says he left no forwarding address."

"Is that usual for one of your lecturers?" Barnaby frowned.

"Not at all. But in the case of Professor Stankiewicz there is a possible explanation."

"I am all ears, sir," said Tom icily.

The Pro-Vice-Chancellor cleared his throat. "Some doubt had been cast on the originality of Professor Stankiewicz's masterpiece, _Problems in the Interpretation of Babylonic Cuneiform_," he said, pulling the back of his collar away from his neck. "There is evidence to suggest that a large part of it was the work of one of our post-graduates. The committee that looks into these things - " (he waved his other arm about) " - was looking into it. In other words, he was being investigated, Inspector."

"I see. Does that mean that he is not an expert in the field of Hittite relics?"

"Hittite relics? Oh, there aren't many of those!" said Doctor Macpherson with a laugh. "But I don't doubt his knowledge of these subjects. He values things for Sotheby's, so he must know something about them. Perhaps they can help you with his whereabouts?"

"Thank you, Doctor Macpherson. You have been most helpful." Tom Barnaby left the study of the Pro-Vice-Chancellor stony-faced.

. . . .

. . . .

. . . .

It was after midday and it had started to rain, so Ben Jones put on his police-issue three-quarter length raincoat before starting out for Midsomer Worthy.

The pub was empty apart from John Coblisson, who was polishing the tap-heads with a bottle of Brasso and a cloth.

"What can I get you, sir?" he asked as Ben walked in.

"Causton C.I.D.," he said, showing his warrant card. "I believe you have somebody called Rose working for you?"

John Coblisson blinked. "What's she gone and done now?" he asked. "I know there's a fiver missing from the till now and then, but it's only nat'ral with a girl like her."

"We are investigating a murder," said Jones.

"Murder! Well, that's something else, that is. How would she be mixed up in a murder?"

"A Mr Philip Reece was battered to death in his own home last night. Would you happen to know the gentleman?"

"Oh, I do, I do. Comes in here quite often, he does."

"And last night - ?"

"He was in here - let me see, now. Some time after eight, it was. And yes, Rose was workin' here, later on. She may have talked to him, but that was all it was."

"And what time did he leave?"

"Oh, gone nine. Nine thirty, may be. If you wanna speak to Rose, you'd best go over to the big house across the road. A Mrs Muriel Hardwicke-Scott lives there, and Rose cleans for her four days a week. But take care of the dogs, mind, they don't 'alf nip!"

"Thank you for your time." Jones strode out of the pub and John immediately pulled out his mobile phone and dialled a number.

"Hallo … it's the police! Philip's been murdered! … Yes, mur - dered. Don't tell 'im anything about you know what."

. . . .

. . . .

. . . .

As soon as Ben rang the doorbell of Hardwicke Hall there was a terrible noise of dogs barking. Mrs Hardwicke-Scott opened the door herself, at which six or seven little dogs rushed out and surrounded Ben. Two of them started nipping at his trouser-legs, which made him stand on one foot and then the other. Above the noise of the barking could be heard a vacuum cleaner upstairs.

"Dodo - Lulu - stop it! They're only being friendly," she shouted.

"Causton C.I.D.!" shouted Ben, waving his warrant card in the air, "There's been a murder!"

"What?"

"_There's been a murder_," shouted Ben even louder.

"Oh - you'd better come in." Muriel opened the door wide and showed Ben into the sitting-room. The dogs went wild.

"Sit down and keep still!" ordered Muriel. "It's your raincoat - it's upsetting them. That big black thing flapping about - they're getting excited."

Ben was about to sit down on the sofa when he noticed that what he thought was a fawn-coloured cushion was in fact a chihuahua, which snarled menacingly. He sat down beside it.

"Excuse me a moment," said Muriel, shutting the majority of the dogs outside the room. The noise of barking eventually died down. "That's better," she said, sitting down in the armchair beside the fireplace. She sat with her back straight upright, as if she had been trained never to slouch. "What can I do for you?"

"I believe you have a Rose working for you today?"

"I do. What of it?"

"It's really Rose I came to see, Mrs Hardwicke-Scott."

Muriel wrinkled her nose. "If there's been a murder I think I should be the first to be asked about it," she said.

Ben thought that Muriel Hardwicke-Scott was not a woman to be crossed lightly, so he asked "Did you know Philip Reece?"

"Did? So he's the victim. Yes, I knew him, slightly. He wasn't quite on my social level, if you know what I mean. He was a spendthrift and a womaniser. Jealous husband, I expect. And he didn't like dogs."

Ben coughed, thinking what good taste Philip Reece must have had. "You didn't happen to see him yesterday evening, did you?"

"Why should I have? Oh. As a matter of fact, I did see him. He was in that pub across the road, where Rose works."

"Were you in the pub yesterday evening, Mrs Hardwicke-Scott?"

"Of course not," snapped Muriel. "But I had to go across the road to get the landlord to move his filthy motor, which he insists on parking right outside my house. The Prince of Zanzibar was here this morning, you know. Bought William of Orange for a four figure sum. William of Orange has won prizes at Crufts."

"William - of Orange?"

"Ro-ro is his pet name."

At this moment a young man wearing a tee-shirt and shorts walked into the room from the garden and said "Can I go now, Mrs Hardwicke-Scott?"

"Have you cleaned out all the kennels?" asked Muriel.

"Yes, Mrs Hardwicke-Scott."

"And is Fifi eating again?"

"Not sure, Mrs Hardwicke-Scott. Looks poorly to me."

"Oh, well. I'll see her later on. And I'll see you on Saturday."

"Yes, Mrs Hardwicke-Scott. Good-bye, Mrs Hardwicke-Scott." The young man bowed slightly, nodded awkwardly in the direction of Ben Jones and took his leave via the hall, at which there was a renewed outburst of barking, which luckily did not last very long.

"Tony. Works for me part-time. Rather simple, but nothing basically wrong with him," she explained to Ben.

"Getting back to the pub," prompted Ben.

"Ah, yes. He was there and he went upstairs with Rose. Don't tell her I said so, though. When I say she works at the pub, I mean she really is a working-girl. The morals of these young people today - and she's married too. Husband's out of work."

"Well - perhaps if I could have a word with her…" said Ben.

"Of course." Muriel went to the door and shouted up the stairs "Rose! The police want to speak to you."

Ben could hear, above the cacophony of barking dogs, the vacuum cleaner being turned off. "Might I speak to her in another room?" he asked timidly.

"Use the room across the hall," said Muriel. "I call it the best sitting-room, but I hardly ever use it."

Ben managed to rush across the hall and shut the door of the best sitting-room behind him before a chihuahua could get in. He could hear Muriel going upstairs and saying "Two full hours I pay you for," and then there was some argument whose words Ben could not hear before Rose came down. As he waited he looked around the well-furnished room. His eye was caught by a framed life-size portrait photograph of a pretty, round-faced young woman with long hair that he thought he recognized. He walked up to it and saw that it was signed at the bottom right-hand corner "Best wishes, Margot". _Margot_, he thought.

Rose entered the room somewhat flustered. "Silly cow," she said angrily and slammed the door behind her, thereby excluding the barking horde.

Ben noticed that the colour in her cheeks complemented the yellow ringlets of hair that fell over her shoulders. "Rose - Mrs - I'm sorry, I don't know your name."

"Pigott," said Rose, sitting down on the arm of a two-seater sofa covered in chintz. She swung her legs backwards and forwards like a schoolgirl, rather provocatively, Ben thought.

"I'm Detective Sergeant Ben Jones, from Causton C.I.D., and we're investigating the murder of Philip Reece." Rose did not look surprised. "I understand that he was drinking in the Queen's Arms last night and that you were working there."

"What if I was?" asked Rose defensively.

"Did Mr Reece leave the pub alone?"

"Course he did. He's got a wife to go home to, hasn't he?"

"And what time was that - approximately?"

"About - ten thirty, I should say. Yeah. Ten thirty."

"And did he talk to anyone in the pub?"

"Only me. And that was to pass the time of day like."

"I see." Ben thought he was not going to get very far with Rose Pigott. "Have you worked for Mrs Hardwicke-Scott for long?" he asked, for want of anything better to say.

"Just over a year now. I wish I didn't, but we need the money. Thank God I don't have to look after the dogs, she's got someone else to do that. Horrible little rats they are."

Ben felt inclined to agree, but instead said to Rose, giving her his card, "There's my number if you think of anything else about Philip Reece. This _is_ a murder enquiry, Mrs Pigott."

"Oh yeah, I know." Rose winked at him as he opened the door into the hall. To his surprise there were no barking dogs and he called out "I'll be off now, Mrs Hardwicke-Scott."

Mrs Hardwicke-Scott shot out of the inferior sitting-room, shutting the door behind her and behind renewed barking. "Tell me, are you in charge of this investigation, young man?" she asked.

"Ah - no, that will be Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby." Jones found another card in his pocket which he handed to her.

"Only I always like to know who the top man is. Did you get any sense out of her?" At this point Rose was standing behind him in the doorway of the best sitting-room.

"Oh, yes - Mrs Pigott was most helpful," he said. Something compelled him to ask "Can you tell me, Mrs Hardwicke-Scott, who 'Margot' is? I noticed her portrait next door and I thought I recognized her."

"She was a famous actress in the seventies and early eighties," said Muriel. "One of my best customers. Margot Mireille."

"Of course!" said Ben, as images of the scantily-clad buxom young woman filled his mind. "I saw some of her films when I was a child."

"It was such a tragedy she died young. A head-on car crash, you know. Well, I mustn't keep you chattering like this. I've got to take Frou-Frou to the vet to be spayed."

"Goodbye, Mrs Hardwicke-Scott. Mrs Pigott," and Ben took his leave, certain that Rose had winked at him again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Jones reached the station just as Barnaby was coming out of the canteen carrying a pot of yoghurt and a spoon, having had a large plate of mince and rice. Neither was in a particularly good mood.

"Stankiewicz is a phoney," said Tom abruptly. "How did you get on?"

"I was nearly mauled to death by a pack of little dogs," said Jones mournfully. "Muriel Hardwicke-Scott - lives across the road from the pub and breeds chihuahuas called names like Bo-bo and La-la. Hundreds of them. I'm sure the one next to me on the sofa was Poo-poo."

Barnaby chuckled. "And what about Rose?"

"Rose says Philip Reece left the pub at half past ten, the landlord said it was half past nine and Mrs Hardwicke-Scott said she saw them going upstairs together in the pub for a little - you know."

Barnaby looked deliberately blank.

"She's not exactly a faithful wife, if that dragon is to be believed. A working girl, she called her."

"But we know that he did come home some time between eleven o'clock and midnight, at the latest," said Tom, tucking into his yoghurt. "George Bullard is never wrong."

"Sir," said Ben, "do you remember an actress called Margot Mireille?"

"Indeed I do," said Tom, putting down his spoon, "she was a glamour model turned actress. Made her name appearing on the cover of glossy men's magazines. Why do you ask?"

"Just curious. Mrs Hardwicke-Scott had a signed photo of her on her wall."

"She was famous for having an exceptionally large bust. If I remember correctly, she died in the 1980's in a head-on car crash. I can see the picture in the papers now. I think she was clutching a little dog to her bosom at the time."

"Must be one of Muriel's chihuahuas. She said she was one of her best customers. Strange she never mentioned it."

"The little dog I think got crushed to death."

"Followed by her - "

"Exactly, Jones. Now, since Stankiewicz has disappeared, I must find out who else, apart from Arleen and Joyce, heard him value the Hittite mortar. The mortar, Jones, it must have something to do with it. And in the meantime, get in touch with Sotheby's and find out what sort of reputation Stankiewicz has with them and whether they know where he is."

"Sotheby's, sir?"

"Yes, Sotheby's, Jones, the auction house," said Barnaby as he swept out of the office.

. . . .

. . . .

. . . .

"It must have been an awful shock for you," said Joyce as she handed Arleen a strong cup of tea.

"Oh, yes, it was. Philip and I have been married for fifteen years and … well, you sort of get used to people, don't you, Joyce?"

"I know exactly what you mean," said Joyce. She heard Tom's Volvo pull up outside. "There's Tom now!"

"I really ought to be going," said Arleen, getting up in confusion. "I don't think he'll want to - "

"Nonsense," said Joyce. "Tom, I've got Arleen with me," she called out as she heard him shutting the front door.

"Oh, good," said Tom, entering the kitchen, "I'm glad Joyce is looking after you, Arleen."

"I do hope you don't think I'm - " began Arleen, sitting down again.

"Not at all," said Tom. "In fact, I was hoping to see you again. Between you and Joyce, can you remember who else would have heard the professor putting a value on that Hittite mortar?"

"There were five or six people round the table," said Joyce slowly. "One of them was a young man with long black hair - he was sitting the other side of me during the lecture."

"Oh, that's Denny," said Arleen. "Dennis Pigott. He's married to that girl I told you about - Rose. They live in Midsomer Worthy."

"Can you remember anyone else?" asked Tom.

"Um - I'm sorry, Tom, I didn't notice anyone else," said Joyce. "But I think they were all women."

"There wasn't anyone else from Midsomer Worthy," said Arleen. "It's such a small village I'd have recognized them. Did you find out anything about Rose and Philip, Inspector? He was seeing her, wasn't he?"

"How well do you know Rose and Dennis Pigott?" asked Tom.

"Hardly at all," said Arleen, "but she's got a bit of a reputation in the village. Rumour has it she's slept with all the males between eighteen and forty. And Denny's got a reputation for having a temper. He and Philip had a row a couple of months ago."

"Really?" asked Tom blandly.

"Philip wrote a piece about the new Causton estate for _Midsomer Life._ I think it was published in the _Causton Echo _as well. Saying how all the houses were jerry-built and didn't meet the building regulations." Arleen took a sip of tea. "Denny was the chief architect for that project and he lost his job because of it. He came round our house one evening swearing he'd get him for it. I'm afraid Philip was rather good at exposing things like that."

"And that was that?" asked Tom.

"Well, yes. Philip just shrugged it off. Oh, dear," said Arleen, putting her tea down, "you don't think Philip's death had anything to do with that, do you?"

"Leave it all to Tom and stop worrying about it," said Joyce. "It was probably just one of those silly rows men have."

"Yes - probably," said Arleen, breathing heavily again.

"Do you happen to know their address?" asked Tom casually.

"Well, I know where they live - it's the only cottage in Honeysuckle Lane," said Arleen.

"I'm sorry, Joyce, I'll have to go out again," said Tom, picking up the car keys he had put down on the kitchen table a moment earlier.

"Oh, _Tom_," said Joyce. "But you will be home for supper, won't you? It's cottage pie."

"I couldn't miss it for the world," said Tom, already on his way out. "Bye, Arleen, and thank-you for the information."

"He's always doing that," said Joyce as soon as he had gone.

. . . .

. . . .

. . . .

Tom arrived at the cottage in Honeysuckle Lane with Ben, whom he had picked up at the station, just before five o'clock.

"Causton C.I.D.," said Tom, producing his warrant card. Ben Jones followed suit.

"I thought you'd come sniffing around," said Dennis, who answered the door. "Rose warned me. Well, she's not here. She's gone to work at that pub of hers, alright?"

"Might we come in, sir?" asked Barnaby politely while Jones side-stepped Dennis and walked into the living-room.

"Here, what are you doing?" asked Dennis, following Ben.

"We have a few questions to ask you, sir, in connection with a murder," said Jones forcefully.

"I don't know nothing about it," said Dennis. "Just because that bastard goes and gets himself killed, it's nothing to do with me."

"But you did know him, didn't you, sir?" asked Barnaby, who had followed Jones.

"Yeah." Dennis looked down. "I knew him alright. That geezer lost me my job - and what he wrote was all a pack of lies, see, a _pack of lies_." He banged his fist down on the coffee-table. "But I wouldn't kill him." His voice dropped almost to a whisper. He brushed the long strands of hair that had fallen over his eyes back over his forehead.

"We have a statement to the effect that you threatened Mr Reece about two months ago," said Jones.

"Threatening's one thing," said Dennis. "Killing's another."

"I understand that you are out of work at present," said Barnaby pleasantly. "It can't be easy, seeing your wife making all the money for both of you?"

Dennis looked as though he might cry. "Rose," he said, "Rose…"

"Sir?" asked Jones.

"Oh, God, you don't understand, do you?" Dennis put his hands to his face, thereby brushing a quantity of hair back. "I never thought it was true. I never believed it."

"Believed what, sir?" asked Barnaby.

"The rumours. People in the village have been talking. They said that Rose was making money out of - sleeping with other men." Dennis now buried his face in his hands and sobbed quietly. "We had such a good thing going. A year now, it's lasted."

"Your marriage?" asked Jones.

Dennis nodded. "I believed her when she said she only had eyes for me. I was a fool."

"And - how did you discover that what they were saying was true?" asked Barnaby delicately.

Dennis took a few steps forward and a few steps backwards. "It was yesterday evening. Something she said - about doing extra work - started me thinking. I felt like an idiot, but I followed her to the pub, about a quarter to nine."

"To the Queen's Arms?" asked Jones, taking notes.

"That's right. I was quite a bit behind her, so she didn't see me. I went up to the side window that looks onto the bar. There he was, that swine, sitting there drinking, and Rose - Rose was flirting with him."

"How do you know she was flirting with him?" asked Jones.

"Well, it was obvious, the way she was swaying about and cooing at him. I couldn't hear the words, but I know what I saw."

"And then, sir?" asked Barnaby.

"Then I heard that dog woman shouting and the dogs yapping. So I dodged down below the window-sill. When I looked up they were gone."

"You mean - your wife and Mr Reece?" asked Jones.

"They were gone, both of them, and Mrs High-and-Mighty had gone with her dogs, too. So I went back home. And Rose wasn't here." Dennis threw himself into an armchair. "Rose didn't come home till eleven thirty."

"Did you question her about her movements?" asked Barnaby. "There might have been some simple explanation."

"What other explanation is there? She works there, doesn't she? She knows there are rooms upstairs."

"Are you sure you came straight home after leaving the pub, sir?" asked Jones.

"Course I'm sure. I've told you the whole story and there's no more to be said."

"And you waited in here, at home, until Rose came home at eleven thirty?"

"Not quite," said Denny. "I went to the off-licence about… nine fifteen, I think - and bought myself a bottle of scotch. Drank the whole of it that evening."

"The off-licence in Parva Road?"

"That's right." Jones made a note.

"Do you mind if we have a look around your house, sir?" asked Barnaby.

"Yeah, I mind. But I've got nothing to hide. Go ahead," said Dennis, sitting dejectedly in his chair.

Barnaby and Jones spent the next twenty minutes rummaging around the little cottage, looking for a blood-stained Hittite mortar and a collection of silver birds, neither of which however they found.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

"It's got to be the jealous husband, sir." Jones was sitting at his computer the next morning, while Barnaby was sipping coffee from a plastic mug at the next desk.

"Anything on him?" he asked. "Ooh, this is disgusting!" and he threw away the plastic mug.

"Yes, sir. A conviction for ABH four years ago."

"Actual Bodily Harm? What did he do?"

"He assaulted a colleague outside a pub. Broke two of his teeth. Community service."

"Hmm. Our Mr Pigott has a violent temper, that is certain. But would he kill anybody?"

"He might do if he was caught in the act of stealing silver from him. Specially if the victim was the man that had got him the sack from his job. And we know he was living on his wife's earnings."

"His wife, whom he had just discovered was having an affair with the same man. It makes sense, Jones."

"Thank you, sir."

"What about Professor Stankiewicz?"

"Ah - I spoke to a very posh young lady at Sotheby's, who said that he was one of their most reliable valuers and that his credentials were impeccable."

"But do they know where he is?"

"No, sir. They only have a mobile phone number for him and he has not returned their calls for over a week."

"Very reliable," said Tom drily. "Does he have a record?"

"No, sir. Not in this country, at any rate."

At this point PC Angel opened the door and said with an air of triumph, "We've got him, sir."

"Got who?" asked Barnaby.

"The burglar, sir. Patrol stopped him between Midsomer Worthy and Parva late last night because the stop lights on his white van were defective. Turned out he had quite a haul in it. He's in Interview Room number 2 at the moment." He handed a file to Tom, who immediately got up and, followed by Ben, made his way to the Interview Room, where a young man with a pimply face, thick glasses and orange hair that stood up in spikes was sitting, chewing gum, attended by the officer on duty. On the desk was an array of silver objects - a duck, a goose, a pheasant, a partridge, a quail, and several other birds to which Barnaby could not immediately put a name.

"Mr - Stephen Wills," he said, putting on his glasses and reading from the file as he sat down at the desk. "I am Inspector Barnaby and this is Sergeant Jones."

"'S'right," said the young man, "but they call me Spike."

Barnaby looked at his hair. "Well, Spike, you've been caught red-handed. These objects were reported stolen by a Mrs Arleen Reece of Midsomer Worthy."

"Yeah," said Spike, looking down and nodding vigorously." "I admi' it."

"And it says here," said Tom, continuing to read the file, "that you are known to the police and that you are responsible for several other burglaries in the area."

"Well - one or two," said Spike modestly.

"But it does not say," said Tom softly but deliberately, looking up at the young man in front of him, "that you are responsible for murder." Tom smiled blandly.

"Murder! Oh, no! You've go' i' all wrong, Inspector."

"Then how do you account for the body of Mr Philip Reece at the scene of the crime?"

"I don't know nothin' about tha'," said Spike nervously.

"Mr Philip Reece was found lying on the floor in his living-room with his head bashed in," said Jones loudly.

"Was 'e?" asked Spike, glancing from one detective to the other.

"Finger-prints taken from these silver - objects," said Tom, "match yours."

"Wel'," said Spike, "I picked 'em up, did'n' I?"

"But what about the metal object that you used to batter Mr Reece to death?" asked Jones. "It isn't here."

"Metal object? What metal object?"

"A mortar. A heavy metal mortar." Jones leaned forward. "Like what you use to grind spices in in the kitchen - you know" - and Jones did a little mime of grinding spices in a bowl.

"Did'n' see nothin' like tha'."

"Come on, Mr Wills. You've admitted to the burglary. What about the murder?"

Spike said nothing but continued chewing his gum.

"Let's go back to the burglary," said Barnaby, leaning back in his chair. "Tell us exactly how and when it happened."

"Wel'," said Spike, shifting in his chair. "I bin watchin' that house for some time, see. Every night, reg'lar as clockwork, the lights wen' out about eleven thir'y. I seen the silver in the cabinet in the main room, an' I reckoned I could get a good price on it. Night before last, I was ready to do the job. So I goes down there, gone twelve thir'y, it was, but blow me if the light was'n' all a-blazin'. Winder was open an' curtains not drawn an' all. So I says to m'self, somethin' not right 'ere. Now, mos' people would leave all alone, at tha'," said Spike, getting into his stride, "bu' I ain' like mos' people."

"No," agreed Barnaby.

"So I crep' up, jus' to get a look inside, an' I could'n' see nobody in the room. No' a' first. But then I look a bit closer, an' blow me if I di'n' see a body lyin' on the floor. Must be your chap, I reckon."

Jones threw his pen onto the desk in irritation. "So you climbed in through the window and stole the silver," he said, "and failed to report a murder."

"Exac'ly."

"But what about the mortar? The heavy metal object?"

"I never seen tha'."

"Constable," called Barnaby, "detain this suspect for further questioning."

"Sir!" barked the duty officer looking straight ahead as Barnaby and Jones walked out of the interview room.

"It's a pack of lies, sir," said Jones in disgust. "He was surprised by Philip Reece and killed him with the mortar. It's obvious."

"Philip Reece was home before midnight," said Tom. "Our friend says it was after twelve thirty when he 'did the job'."

"Perhaps he heard the burglar and came downstairs - or something," said Ben. "And anyway - you can't be sure Wills is right about the time."

"It's possible, Jones, it's possible. But first we must find the mortar - and with any luck it will have incriminating finger-prints on it. His address," - Tom consulted his notes again - "is no.35, Railway Cuttings, Midsomer Parva."

"Right," said Ben, baring his teeth.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

When Rose arrived at Hardwicke Hall shortly after ten o'clock that morning she had a black left eye and her right cheek was swollen. "Goodness!" said Muriel, as soon as the dogs' barking had died down, "what has he done to you now?"

"It's nothing," said Rose sullenly. "I fell down the stairs."

"Fiddlesticks!" said Muriel. "He's been knocking you about. I wonder why that was."

'It's none of your business,' thought Rose, but said "It was only a row. Will you be wanting the landing done, Mrs Hardwicke-Scott?" Rose walked past the magnificently bannistered staircase to the cupboard under the stairs and started to get out the Hoover.

"Yes, yes, do the landing," said Muriel absently. "Men like that should be taught a lesson. He does nothing all day and beats his wife up in the evening."

"He's not all bad," said Rose, stopping in front of Muriel with the vacuum cleaner. "As a matter of fact, he's gone into Causton today looking for work. Won't be back till lunch-time, he said. Now, if you will excuse me - " and, pulling the Hoover behind her, she brushed past her employer, who was standing in the middle of the hall.

Muriel, who was always interested in other people's affairs, was disappointed not to learn from Rose whether Denny had beaten her up because she had had a fling the night before with the now sadly deceased Philip Reece, but after a moment's indecision called out up to her, "I'm taking Lulu and Sushi out for a walk. I thought I'd pop into the village shop. I shall be back within half an hour."

"Right," said Rose as she turned on the cleaner.

Muriel walked into the kitchen and returned with a large, heavy, wicker basket. On the wall opposite the magnificent lowest bannister was a rather less magnificent rack of coat-pegs, from each of which hung two or more dog-leads. The slight sound of jingling as Muriel took two of these leads off their pegs was enough to summon all the chihuahuas within earshot in a frenzy of barking.

"Walkies!" cried Muriel, as the dogs jumped and yapped hysterically.

. . . .

. . . .

. . . .

"All clear now, madam," said the young policeman politely, opening the door to the kitchen, where Arleen was preparing to fry a chicken breast in olive oil.

"Oh!" she said, "thank-you so much!" She tried unsuccessfully to sweep some of her hair away from her right ear with the back of her hand, as her fingers were oily.

"It's all been steam-cleaned like new," went on the young policeman, "you'd never know there'd been a… well, I must be off now," and the young policeman retrieved his cap and departed.

Arleen turned off the hob and slowly walked upstairs. It was time to think about the funeral, she thought. She walked into Philip's study, a part of the house which for her had always been forbidden territory, and went over to his desk, which was covered in letters, bills and papers of all descriptions. So much to sort out, she thought sadly. She turned over some of the papers and saw a grey cardboard folder beneath them. Inside there were more letters, but all these, as she soon discovered, were on one theme. She blinked and opened her mouth in amazement as she read first one letter and then another.

. . . .

. . . .

. . . .

It was about four o'clock that afternoon when Barnaby and Jones raced, or in Barnaby's case puffed, into Mr Goldberg's Antique Shop in Causton.

"Mr Goldberg," panted Tom, "I think - you have - something to show us. I am" - as the fat little man behind the counter blinked at them - "Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby, and this is" - he paused for breath, leaning on the counter, but Ben filled in for him, taking out his warrant card.

"Yes, indeed," said Mr Goldberg, putting on white cotton gloves. "One never can be too careful these days."

"Quite," said Tom.

Mr Goldberg drew from under the counter a heavy metal mortar with strange wings attached to it. "I think this is what you have in mind."

"Oh, yes," said Tom, bending down to peer at it. "At least - I think so. Is it really… Hittite?"

"I couldn't possibly say, sir," said Mr Goldberg placidly. "The gentleman who brought it in was quite insistent that it was, and that it was worth at least twenty thousand pounds… we really insist on proof of provenance in cases like these."

"You mean - where it came from?" asked Jones.

Mr Goldberg passed his tongue over his lips and said "Just so. I am no expert on Hittite antiquities, but I suggested to the gentleman - "

"Do you know his name?" asked Tom.

Mr Goldberg smiled slightly and shook his head. "We never got as far as that, sir. As soon as I suggested contacting Professor Stankiewicz, of Oxford University, the gentleman became quite alarmed and left the shop shortly afterwards, about half an hour ago."

"Can you describe him?" urged Jones.

"Certainly. He was probably under thirty, tall, slim, with long black hair that kept falling over his eyes."

"And he left the pot - mortar - with you?"

"Oh, that was a subterfuge," said Mr Goldberg with a chuckle. "I asked him to come back in half an hour after I had contacted the auction houses to ascertain its possible value. He appeared to be desperate to sell the article on the spot. He might still come back, but I doubt it. An article with a similar description had been posted on the stolen art site by the Midsomer constabulary - which led me to you, Chief Inspector." Mr Goldberg smiled broadly.

"And did you contact Professor Stankiewicz?" asked Tom.

Mr Goldberg sighed. "I do not know how to contact him, or indeed any other well-known valuer. It is all in the hands of the auction houses. My job is simply to steer my customers in that direction - _if _- " and he paused for emphasis " - the circumstances warrant it."

"And did you never touch that pot - mortar - with your bare hands, Mr Goldberg?" asked Jones.

"_I _never did," said Mr Goldberg, drawing himself up to his full five foot six inches, "because I am a professional. But of course the _customer _did."

"Well, Mr Goldberg," said Barnaby, himself putting on plastic gloves, "I think you have done your duty, sir. Evidence bag, Jones."

"_**If **_- " Mr Goldberg said with greater emphasis, " - I could perhaps have a receipt?" Mr Goldberg smiled urbanely.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

It was nearly half past eleven the next morning and Tom Barnaby was drumming his fingers on the desk when George Bullard walked in, carrying a couple of transparencies.

"Well, George?" asked Tom impatiently.

"This is only a preliminary report," said George, "but that mortar had been washed. There are, however, traces of dried blood which we have identified as belonging to Philip Reece."

"So at least we know that was the murder weapon," grunted Tom.

"But that's not all," continued George, "although most fingerprints have been removed the inside was apparently not washed."

"And?" Tom almost started out of his chair.

"Tom, you've got to remember that this mortar is - allegedly - at least two thousand years old."

"So you've got nothing for me."

"Oh, but I have." George pulled up a chair at Tom's desk. "We have managed to separate the most recent fingerprints on the inside from all the others. There are only two that we were able to take with any accuracy. Number One," and he placed one transparency on the desk, "is the most recent, overlaid on top of all the others. That one is unidentified."

"Must be Pigott," said Jones, who had come over to inspect the transparencies.

"Number Two, which is underneath," and he placed the other transparency on the desk, "matches the fingerprints already taken of Stephen Wills, our burglar."

"Ha!" said Tom.

"Gotcha!" said Ben. "But wait a minute - Wills kills Reece and then - gives the mortar to Denny Pigott? That doesn't make any sense."

"Unless it was to incriminate him," said Tom.

"But does he know him?" asked Jones.

"There's one way of finding out," said Tom. "George - let me get this straight, there are no fingerprints on the mortar that could have been made after the burglar handled it, apart from the unidentified ones, which we think must be Denny's. Is that right?"

"Correct," said George. "But please remember that there are further tests to be done."

"I think we have some further interviews to do," said Tom, getting up. "You take Spike, Jones, and I'll take Denny."

"Yes, sir," said Jones.

. . . .

. . . .

. . . .

At first Dennis Pigott thought of not answering the door to the insistent knocking of Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby, and then of running out of the back door, but in the end he opened it slowly, with the air of a condemned man awaiting his execution.

"I have to ask you a few questions, sir, about a certain Hittite mortar," said Barnaby, enunciating the words carefully.

"Come in," said Denny gloomily.

"Tell me about it," said Tom as soon as they were both sitting at the table in the front room of the cottage in Honeysuckle Lane.

Denny cleared his throat. "I should never have done it," he said eventually.

"Done what, sir?"

"I should never have tried to sell it."

Barnaby turned his head to one side quizzically.

"It was there - propped up against the dustbin - outside the kitchen door."

Barnaby looked at him impassively.

"I came home yesterday about one thirty. I'd been in Causton, you see, looking for work. I registered with the Job Centre, but they said they had nothing for me. Said that as I'd left my previous job under a cloud it was unlikely I would be able to get another job as an architect. So I came home, feeling worse than ever. Rose wasn't here, of course - she was at her pub. So I had to get my own lunch."

"The mortar, sir," said Tom quietly.

"I'm telling you, Inspector, I'm telling you. I got a ready meal from the freezer. I went to throw away the carton in the dustbin, and there it was. I couldn't believe it at first, but I knew what it was from that lecture when the professor guy valued it."

"If what you are saying is true," said Barnaby carefully, "you also knew that it belonged to Philip Reece."

"I knew, I knew. But we need the money, Inspector…"

"At the very least I could charge you here and now with handling stolen goods. But I think it is very likely that you are also guilty of murder."

"Oh, no, Inspector, no." Denny shook his head slowly and started to sob quietly. "Everything's going wrong for me now."

Tom drew a police identification photograph from his breast pocket. "Do you know this man?" He studied Denny's face as he looked at it but could not detect any sign of recognition.

"No," said Denny. "He has very red hair. Who is he?"

"I must ask you, sir, not to leave the village while we continue our enquiries. In the meantime, I will have my sergeant draw up a report concerning the stolen mortar." Without another word Tom left the little cottage, while Denny went into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of whisky. Finding the bottle empty, he threw it violently onto the floor, where it smashed.

. . . .

. . . .

. . . .

"Tell me about the mortar," said Jones. Spike was back in Interview Room number 2, this time accompanied by a bespectacled young lady who sat beside him, taking notes.

"I tol' you, I don' know nothin' 'bout no mor'ar."

"Don't lie to me," said Jones, bending forwards. "Your fingerprints were on it." He produced the mortar which was wrapped in a plastic evidence bag and banged it down on the desk in front of Spike.

"Oh, yeah," said Spike after a moment. "Come to fink of i', I do remember i' now."

"Where was it?" asked Jones at the top of his voice.

"Beside the body," he said. "I pick' i' up an' then frew i' down again."

"You don't have to say anything," said the bespectacled young lady in a low voice.

"I don't believe you," said Jones. "You used it to kill Philip Reece, didn't you?"

"No, I never. Like I say, 'e were already dead. I reckon that fing done for 'im, though. When I sees blood on i' I drop i' quick. At firs' I though' as maybe there were some money in i' bu' then I reckon i' were only a bi' o' trash."

Jones sighed in frustration. "What do you know about Mr Dennis Pigott?"

"Never 'eard of 'im."

Ben stared hard at him, but Spike only stared back.

"Constable," he called out, "lock this gentleman up again and apply to the magistrate for an extension."

"Sir," barked the duty officer.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

"Oh, thank you, Inspector!" said Arleen, beaming at Tom Barnaby who stood at the door of her house later that afternoon. "You really are clever! You've found them. Do come in. I'm afraid the house is in a bit of a state," she said as she ushered him into the living-room. Indeed, there were letters, bills and papers everywhere, the majority transported from Philip's study as Arleen did not like to work in the private sanctum of her dead husband.

"I'm afraid you will have to sign for them," said Tom, as he unloaded a quantity of silver birds from a sack onto what little space there was on the coffee table. He produced a long list in triplicate.

"Oh, I'll sign for them - sixteen of them - were there really as many as that? I must compliment you on solving the mystery so quickly. You _are_ clever."

"I'm afraid we haven't solved the mystery of the death of your husband," said Tom.

"Oh, that," said Arleen reflectively. "Never mind, we've got the birds back, that's the main thing. But - not the mortar?" as she surveyed the silver flock.

"The mortar has been recovered," said Tom, "but it is evidence in our murder investigation. I'm afraid you'll have to wait a little longer before getting that back."

"Oh - I see." Arleen looked perplexed. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Thank you - no," said Tom. "Arleen - if you don't mind me asking - were you on good terms with your late husband?"

"Not particularly," said Arleen, fingering some of the silver birds lovingly. "But live and let live, that's my motto. Except he's dead, of course," she added without apparent irony.

"What do you mean by that?" enquired Tom gently.

"Inspector, he was a philanderer. His affairs were notorious. I didn't mind, so long as they were over. But I don't think his affair with that Rose woman _was _over. Oh, I know it sounds silly, but I'm quite sure Joyce understands me. I can't feel terribly sorry now that he's dead. At least I can get a grip on our finances now - Inspector, he was drawing out hundreds of pounds almost every other day. There were warning letters from the bank because we were overdrawn."

"When did you find this out, Arleen?"

"I'd known about it for some time," said Arleen, "but I only realized how bad it was just now, when I started going through his things. Look at the last statement, for example, I think I put it" - she looked vaguely round the room - "here." She walked over to a small desk in one corner of the room. "Look at that!" She triumphantly handed Tom a bank statement showing a balance of £1,600 in debit, ineffectively brushing some of her hair behind her ears.

"Hmm." Tom's eyes passed over the jumble of papers on the desk. His eyes rested on a small framed photograph that stood on top of the desk. "Is that not," he said slowly, "a photograph of Margot Mireille, the actress?" It was a picture of an attractive, round-faced young woman with long hair and a large bust.

Arlene laughed. "If you could call her that! Glamour model, more like."

"And - exactly what connection do you have with her, Arleen? Or was she one of Philip's pin-ups?"

"Pin-ups? Good gracious, no! She was Philip's mother. Margery Reece was her married name."

. . . .

. . . .

. . . .

Tom returned to the station deep in thought and sat down at his desk.

"Spike claims to have picked up the mortar and thrown it down again," said Ben Jones.

"Then how did it get from Arleen's living-room to Denny's dustbin?" asked Tom. "I know that object has what appear to be wings protruding from it, but it can't have flown there."

"Do you really believe what they say?" asked Jones. "I've never heard such a lame explanation. Picked it up and put it down again, just because his fingerprints are on it. And what did Dennis say about the mortar?"

"That he found it propped up against the dustbin," said Tom.

Jones sighed, wondering whether his boss was becoming too credulous in his advancing years.

"I don't believe or disbelieve anything about this case," said Barnaby. "But doesn't it strike you as odd that Muriel Hardwicke-Scott has a picture of Margot Mireille on her wall, and Margot Mireille is Philip Reece's mother? She must have something to do with it."

"Well, Muriel said she was one of her best customers. Yet she said she hardly knew Mr and Mrs Reece."

"I think it's time that I got to meet this formidable lady," said Tom, "but not today. Joyce is 'cooking' this evening."

"Ah," said Ben.

"In the meantime, look on the internet and see if you can discover anything new about the death of Margot Mireille. It was in all the papers - make a summary of all the details you can find."

Jones shook his head wearily.

. . . .

. . . .

. . . .

"What on earth are you doing up there?" called Joyce up to Tom, who was rummaging around in the loft.

"Coming!" said Tom as he opened one cardboard box after another.

"Well, I hope so. It's _rago__û__t _of lamb with dumplings," she said crossly.

At long last Tom climbed carefully down the extendable metal staircase and locked the trap door back in position. "This is it, Joyce. Newspaper cuttings from 1984. I'm sure I kept a cutting about Margot Mireille."

"I don't want to know about all your girl-friends," said Joyce, ladling some stew into a soup-bowl.

"Here we are, Joyce, look!" Tom held a cutting from _The News of the World_ in front of Joyce's eyes. It showed a buxom young woman in the front of a sedan whose bonnet had been crumpled beyond recognition. There was blood all over her face. In her arms was what looked like a dead little dog.

"Famous actress dies in car crash," read Joyce, and then "'Margot Mireille, star of such films as _"Seduced in Soho" _and _"Midnight Manoeuvres"_, died late last night, aged 34. A pet chihuahua, which she was holding at the time, also died in the collision.' I feel sorry for the chihuahua," said Joyce spitefully.

"Joyce, this _has _to be connected with the murder of Philip Reece!" said Tom, reluctantly sitting at the table.

"How?" asked Joyce.

Tom scratched his head. "I don't know, but…"

"Eat," said Joyce. "On second thoughts, wash your hands first. They're very dusty."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

"Morning!" said Tom, breezing into the station at half past nine the next day. "How did you get on?"

"I've found twenty-six articles about Margot Mireille's death," said Ben, who was hunched over a computer, "but they all say the same thing. Margot Mireille was killed by a joy-rider driving an MG Sports car at 60 miles an hour. He got off with a broken leg, but Margot, her chauffeur and the dog she was holding were all killed. If you're thinking this was not an accident, sir, it definitely, definitely was. No possibility of murder at all, sir."

"And who was the driver with the broken leg?" Tom sat casually on the edge of Ben's desk.

"One Victor Rebus, sir. He was convicted of death by dangerous driving but only served six months."

"_Shish!_" exclaimed Tom.

"Sir, I've been thinking."

"You never cease to amaze me, Jones."

"Perhaps we're on the wrong track. Do you think it's possible that Arleen killed her husband? We only have her word for it that she took a sleeping pill. And they had money problems."

Tom Barnaby rubbed his chin. "She certainly did not seem very concerned about his death when I saw her yesterday. And she suspected that her husband was having an affair with Rose."

"It would also explain the mortar," continued Jones. "Who else could have removed it - _after _the burglar had paid a visit - and taken it round to Dennis Pigott's place?"

"To incriminate the man who might have been jealous of his wife's indiscretion. _And _she knew that Pigott was at the lecture when the mortar was valued. I like it, Jones, I like it."

"Thank you, sir."

"But I am not entirely convinced. We have no evidence, Jones. _I _am going to see Muriel Hardwicke-Scott."

"Well, good luck sir. And be careful of those little dogs."

"I shall be careful of the little dogs - _and _of Mrs Hardwicke-Scott," said Tom as he sailed out of the police station.

. . . .

. . . .

. . . .

Above the general cacophony of dogs barking when Tom rang the doorbell of Hardwicke Hall at five past ten could be heard Muriel shouting "Why didn't you use your key, silly girl?"

Tom was duly surrounded by the diminutive pack and hopped from foot to foot much as Ben Jones had done earlier, only more slowly.

"Who are you?" shouted Muriel.

"I'm Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby," shouted Tom, presenting both himself and his warrant card.

"Come in!" Muriel shooed the dogs into the kitchen at the back of the house and firmly shut the door. "They get a bit frisky at this time of day," she explained, returning. "I am really pleased to meet the man in charge at last," she said. "I thought you were the cleaning girl," she added. "She's always late."

"Mrs Hardwicke-Scott - perhaps we could talk somewhere…?" asked Tom, as they were still standing in the hallway.

At this moment the front door opened and Rose walked in. Her face was still swollen and there was still some bruising about her eye. There was a muffled bout of barking from the kitchen, but Rose made for the cupboard under the stairs without a word.

"And what time do you think this is?" asked Muriel indignantly.

"I'm sorry, Mrs Hardwicke-Scott," said Rose, taking off her light summer coat and hanging it on a peg under the stairs.

"Detective Chief Inspector," said Muriel, turning to Barnaby, "what can I do for you? I'm expecting an important visitor from the Kennel Club at ten fifteen, so I shall have to ask you to be brief."

Rose appeared to dawdle as she got the Hoover out of the cupboard.

"I was wondering, Mrs Hardwicke-Scott," said Tom, "if you could let me see the photograph that you have of Margot Mireille?"

"You're not another film buff, are you?" asked Muriel as she opened the door to the best sitting-room. "Your underling appeared to be smitten by her."

Tom walked up to the wall on which hung the photograph of the celebrity and looked at it critically. "So sad," he said, "that she should die so young, and in such a terrible way."

"Yes," said Muriel grudgingly. "It was sad."

"And I believe she was holding one of your chihuahuas at the time?"

"I believe she was," said Muriel. "She bought several dogs from me. The last one was particularly valuable. Detective Chief Inspector, I cannot be expected to be sentimental about my dogs. I have far too many for that. I breed them to the highest possible standards, but once they are sold they are sold. What I expect to get in return is money."

"But you did of course know," said Tom agreeably, "that Margot Mireille was the mother of Philip Reece, whose murder I am investigating?" He watched Muriel for any reaction, but she merely shrugged her shoulders.

"I knew it," she said, "but I hardly knew Philip, or his wife. Chief Inspector, there are people that one knows socially and there are people that one knows commercially. I knew Margot Mireille commercially."

"And on the night that he was killed," continued Barnaby, "could you account for your movements, between, say, ten p.m. and six the next morning?"

Muriel stared at Tom for a moment and then cackled with laughter. "It really is too funny!" she said. "You sound like a policeman in a who-dunnit!"

"Perhaps I am," suggested Tom with half a smile.

"Very well," said Muriel, "I went to bed at eleven o'clock and I got up at seven. Oh, and before that I had words with that publican across the road, he's always parking in front of my house."

"And can any-one verify that you were in bed from eleven until seven?" asked Tom.

"Of course not!" snapped Muriel. "Unlike so many in this village, I am not in the habit of jumping in and out of other people's beds. My husband, who died last year, was quite enough to last me a lifetime. And now, if you will excuse me, Inspector…?" Muriel indicated the front door and Tom complied. "I take it you haven't caught the villain yet," she said at the front door. "Or villains, I should say - I gather there was a burglary as well?"

"Please don't leave the village until our investigations are completed," said Barnaby, handing Muriel his card.

As Tom was walking away from Hardwicke Hall he heard the front door slam and, turning round, saw that Rose was running after him.

"Inspector!" she called. "Don't believe a word of what she says!"

"I'm sorry?"

"That story about the Kennel Club coming to visit - it isn't the Kennel Club, it's somebody from the R.S.P.C.A."

"The Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals?" enunciated Tom in his most Shakespearean tone. "Why are they coming here?"

"I don't know," she said, still slightly out of breath. "You'd best talk to John Coblisson across the road, he's always complaining about the dogs barking. But it ain't a routine visit, that's for sure. They've been here before."

"Rose," said Tom, "did Denny go out at all after you got home from the pub on the night of the murder?"

"Hardly," said Rose, "he was pissed as a newt. Asleep, Inspector. No, he definitely didn't."

. . . . .

. . . .

. . . .

It was only after repeated hammering at the door of the Queen's Arms that John Coblisson, wearing a dressing-gown which barely covered his extensive midriff and tracksuit bottoms, eventually opened up to Tom Barnaby.

"Wha' is it?" he asked. "Can't you see we're not open yet?"

"Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby," said the same, producing identification. "I think my Sergeant visited you the day before yesterday."

"Oh, well," - as John peered at the warrant card - "if it's about tha' murder you'd best come in."

"I understand that you have complained to the R.S.P.C.A. about Muriel Hardwicke-Scott's dogs."

"That I have!" said John. "Twen'y times if I called 'em out once."

"And why was that, sir?"

"Because they's barkin' an' barkin' an' barkin', mornin' noon and night. It's not right. _She's _complained about the noise from my pub, fair enough. But tha' don' affack little critters, see - I _know _those animals is not prop'ly provided for. It's well known, her kennels are a disgrace. I reckon they's goin'a close 'em down soon. And not before time! I tol' tha' feller as bin killed 'n all."

"You told Philip Reece? When was that, sir?"

"Oh, a week or two ago, maybe three. Lots o' talk goes on in these pubs, you know how it is."

"Thank you, Mr Coblisson," said Barnaby, "you have been most helpful."


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

"I talked to the inspector from the R.S.P.C.A.," said Barnaby to Jones later that afternoon, "and he told me that Muriel Hardwicke-Scott's kennels had been under supervision for some time."

"But they weren't going to close her down?" asked Jones.

"They don't have the power to close kennels down," said Barnaby, "but they can prosecute in cases of serious neglect - and Muriel is quite close to that point. They have warned her several times. Apparently Muriel has promised to make one final effort - said that everything would be in order the next time he called."

"Bloody little chihuahuas!" said Ben, and was about to add something else when the telephone on Tom's desk rang.

"Hello… who is this?… what?… I can't understand a word you're saying. Sounds like a nutter," he said aside to Ben, who picked up his extension.

"It's Tony, the young man who cleans out the kennels," he said after listening for a moment, "he's… simple, according to Mrs Hardwicke-Scott. He sounds very distressed, sir."

"Alright, Jones, let's get over there," said Tom.

. . . .

. . . .

. . . .

By the time Barnaby and Jones drew up quite a crowd had gathered outside Hardwicke Hall. John Coblisson, now mercifully fully dressed, was there, standing with his arms folded and a look of grim satisfaction on his face. Rose was also there, comforting the young man whom Ben identified as Tony, who was sitting on the front step, wailing. There were also a great many chihuahuas, with their tails between their legs, all of them howling plaintively. The door was open and Tom and Ben brushed past the on-lookers with an "excuse me" and marched into the hall. Just by the bottom bannister of the staircase lay Muriel Hardwicke-Scott. Her neck was violently red and a purple bruising had spread into her face. Her eyes were bulging from their sockets. She was clearly dead. Some chihuahuas were feebly licking at her face.

"Jones, shut the door," said Barnaby, but just as Jones was doing so Dr George Bullard, already wearing his white boiler-suit and plastic gloves, pushed it open, summoned as if by magic.

"George, what kept you?" asked Tom.

George bent down and examined Muriel's red neck. "Strangled," he said. "Tom, look at this." All three bent over the corpse. "Something thicker than a rope - see this indentation? Like a ribbon all across the front of her neck. About half an inch wide. Compression of the jugular veins and probably of the trachea as well. That accounts for the bruising."

Tom looked around him grimly. He noticed the dog-leads hanging on pegs opposite the bannister. "Perhaps - with one of these?" He picked one off its peg and dangled it in front of George.

"That would be logical," said George. "It must have taken great force to do this."

"So it would be a man?" suggested Tom.

"Not necessarily," said George, "but not many women could do that unaided, specially if she was trying to break free at the time."

"In her own home too!" said Ben. "I don't suppose it was one of the dogs that did it."

"Jones, go and talk to Tony," said Barnaby irritably, "you know him."

"I didn't do it, Mr Inspector, honest I didn't," whimpered Tony, still sitting on the front door-step. Rose was standing over him with an air of shocked concern.

"I don't think he did it," said Rose by way of explanation.

"Nobody is accusing you of anything," said Ben, who crouched down so as to be on Tony's level, "just tell me what happened."

"I dunno what happened - it wasn't me," repeated Tony, putting his thumb in his mouth.

"What did you see, Tony? What did you hear?"

"I was in the garden - with the dogs - and I heard shouting."

"You heard Mrs Hardwicke-Scott shouting? Who else?"

"I dunno," said Tony, sucking his thumb. "Mrs Hardwicke-Scott - she was shouting. I didn't do it, honest."

"But who else was shouting? Who was she with, Tony?"

"I dunno who she was with. It all happened quite quickly. First thing I knew I heard Mrs Hardwicke-Scott shouting."

"Did you hear what she was shouting?" asked Ben. Tony shook his head.

"Did you see or hear anything, Rose?" asked Ben, straightening up.

"I wasn't here," said Rose. "I was over at the pub with John, and I heard the dogs whimpering. Terrible noise it was. So we came over and found Tony here crying his eyes out. Then we went inside and - well, we came outside again pretty smartish, Ben." Ben was certain that she winked at him.

"I heard Mrs Hardwicke-Scott shouting," repeated Tony, taking his thumb out of his mouth, "and then she just stopped shouting, and I thought I heard a gurgle, like a little scream or something. And then I came inside, 'cos it didn't sound right. And then I saw her - and then…" Tony buried his face in his arms.

"Rose, look after him, will you?" said Ben gently.

"Of course," said Rose, looking into Ben's eyes and smiling.

"Rose!" said Tom Barnaby as he came out of the hall abruptly, "is there anything unusual that you can think of that Mrs Hardwicke-Scott said or did in the last day or two? Anything at all?"

Reluctantly Rose turned to face Barnaby. "Not really," she said. "She was always the same miserable old busybody. Except - she did say that she was going shopping the day before yesterday."

"Is that unusual?"

"Well - yes - she usually gets me to do all the shopping for her. Said she was going to the village shop with two of the dogs. Some time after ten o'clock it was. Oh, and you know about the dogs."

"Yes, I know about the dogs," said Barnaby, "and one other thing - did you tell her that there had been a burglary at Philip Reece's house?"

"I never tell her anything I don't have to," said Rose.

"No, I thought not. Where are you off to, Jones?" asked Tom, as Ben moved back into the house.

"Searching for clues, sir," said Ben, with a hint of insubordination, Tom thought.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

"Yes, I remember Mrs Hardwicke-Scott coming in here very well," said the demure Mrs Prendergast, who had been straightening up the magazines on the top shelf at the back of the shop without looking at the covers when Tom came in. "I remember because we don't see her that often. She usually sends that girl, Rose. She came in with two of her little dogs – well, she tied them up outside, because we don't allow dogs in here. Only guide dogs, Inspector. And all she bought was a picture postcard."

"And was she carrying anything?" asked Tom.

"No – except a shopping basket. A large wicker shopping basket. By the looks of it she'd already done her shopping somewhere else, though I can't think where. We're the only shop left in Midsomer Worthy, you see, Inspector."

"Could you see what she had bought?" enquired Tom.

"No – whatever it was was wrapped up in a tea-towel. But it did look heavy. Oh, I hope you can get to the bottom of it, Inspector. Murdered, you say? Well, she wasn't the most popular person in the village, but still…".

"Of all the people with whom she was unpopular, Mrs Prendergast, who would you say liked her least?" asked Tom.

Mrs Prendergast thought for a moment and then said in a low voice, "One shouldn't speak ill of the dead, Inspector, but there was a real feud going on between her and John Coblisson, the landlord at the pub across the road. He had complained to the Council about her dogs yapping all the time and she had complained about the noise at closing-time. I should say he would have more reason than most to want to shut her up for good."

. . . .

. . . .

. . . .

"I understand, Spike, that you have just 'remembered' something else," said Tom with distaste. Spike was again in Interview Room no.2 and the bespectacled young lady was again by his side, again taking notes.

Spike cleared his throat ostentatiously. "You're askin' after a murder, righ'?" he said. Tom acquiesced. "I was thinkin' – if I tell you somethin' as is useful to you, could you see your way to gettin' me a shorter sentence like? Only fair's fair, Inspector."

"I am not in the habit, Mr Wills, of arranging some sort of plea-bargain," said Tom pompously. "If you have evidence of a crime it is your duty to reveal it. Indeed, you could be charged with obstruction of the police if you fail to do so."

"All righ', all righ'," said Spike, shifting in his chair. "Keep yer 'air on."

Tom Barnaby stared at him expressionlessly.

"It's jus' 'at - you know I was doin' tha' job, dahn Midsomer Worvy?"

"I do."

"Wel', I was comin' away from there, mus' be near one o'clock, an' I sees in the 'eadlights o' mi' van an ol' woman, walkin' t'other way, she were, an' she were wearin' gloves an' all, an' carryin' a shoppin' basket - at tha' time o' night! Didn' seem nat'ral."

"Thank you, Mr Wills," said Tom drily. "We shall charge you tomorrow."

. . . .

. . . .

. . . .

The sun was setting on another beautiful summer day in Midsomer Worthy and Arleen Reece was surprised, but not displeased, to see the black Volvo of Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby draw up outside her front door. What caused her more concern, however, was the sight of another, marked, police car which also drew up.

"Hallo, Chief Inspector – Tom – and Sergeant Jones," she said as she opened the door, her voice trailing off.

"May we?" asked Tom politely and Arleen ushered them in. Ben Jones was carrying a blue plastic file in his hand.

"The place is still an awful mess, I'm afraid," said Arleen, "but, as you can see, the silver birds are all back in place." She laughed nervously and pushed at her hair. Indeed the silver birds were all assembled as if for a meeting on the dresser in the corner. "Can I get you a cup of coffee – or cocoa, perhaps?"

"This is not a social call," said Tom seriously. "Arleen, I don't think you have told us the whole truth."

Arleen's eyes looked slightly glazed as she looked from one detective to the other. "Oh dear," she said.

"I think you know more about the death of your mother-in-law than you have so far told us," said Tom.

Arleen continued to glance from Tom to Ben for a moment and then walked silently to the desk in the corner, from which she produced a grey cardboard folder. "I think you should look in here," she said.

"Why don't you tell us in your own words?" said Tom, handing the folder to Ben Jones, who opened it and started to examine the letters inside.

"The truth is that Margot – we always called her that," said Arleen, sitting on the sofa and looking up at Tom and Ben, " – had bought a dog from Muriel Hardwicke-Scott days before her unfortunate death."

"Which _was _an accident," put in Jones.

Arleen nodded. "No doubt about it. Tragic, of course. But she hadn't paid for the dog before she died. The dog was worth a lot of money. But there was no evidence that Muriel had actually _sold _the dog. I found all this out the day before yesterday, when I was going through Philip's things. Philip was only eleven when his mother died. The bulk of his mother's fortune went to the Battersea Dogs' Home and the will was bitterly contested by Philip's father, without success. When Pa Reece died of cancer five years ago what little was left over passed to Philip – along with Muriel's claim for the little dog. Pa Reece had refused to pay it for twenty years, but Muriel had never given up trying to get it out of him."

"And she turned her attention to Philip," said Ben, opening his own blue plastic file. "I found these letters among the effects of Muriel who, as you know, died earlier today."

Arleen hardly registered any surprise. "Pa Reece used to say that Margot and Muriel were on friendly terms, but not really friends, and that Margot kept going back to Muriel for another chihuahua. It was a bit of an accessory for actresses at the time, you know."

('_Like large breasts_,' thought Ben, but merely looked at the ground.)

"With all this friendliness it was quite understandable that Margot might have thought she had merely borrowed the dog – on approval, as it were. They didn't just sign on the dotted line as if you were buying a washing-machine or something."

"And Philip strongly resisted having to pay over three thousand pounds for a dog that had died along with his mother in a car crash in 1984," suggested Tom.

"Oh, yes," said Arleen. "There were solicitors involved and everything."

"And threats of court action," said Ben. "The only reason that Muriel Hardwicke-Scott did not sue for payment was that she knew that she was in trouble with the R.S.P.C.A. over the conditions in which she kept her dogs, and she was afraid that if she took Philip, or before that his father, to court the truth might come out and she might be forced to close down."

"Apparently the hygiene was appalling, according to their inspector," said Tom.

"There were dogs kept in tiny cages stacked on top of the refrigerator," added Ben. "God know what the kennels outside were like."

"But it all came to a head now, twenty-five years on," said Tom. "And that was because Philip learned how close she was to being closed down from John Coblisson, a few weeks ago."

"Yes," said Arleen, almost shouting, "and that's why he died."

Tom gazed at her with a neutral expression.

"If only he hadn't done it." said Arleen, becoming quite animated, "If only he hadn't threatened to expose her in the _Causton Echo _and _Midsomer Life_. But he was good at that sort of thing, Inspector, exposing wrongs."

"So he had to die." Tom advanced towards Arleen and said to her almost tenderly, "When were you sure – Arleen – that Muriel had killed your husband?"

"Those letters," said Arleen, looking up at him defiantly, "they told me all I needed to know."

"An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth," said Tom.

"Oh, but it wasn't like that, Inspector. I went round to confront her – not to kill her." Arleen took out a large spotted handkerchief and blew her nose loudly. "I showed her a copy of the last letter that Philip had written – the one in which he said he was definitely going to publish the article if she didn't stop pestering him for money – and she went berserk. She screamed at me that I owed her over three thousand pounds and tried to throttle me. I know I've done something wrong but honestly, it was self-defence, Mr Barnaby."

"I am prepared to believe you, Arleen," said Tom after a slight pause, "but how did you manage to strangle her with such force?"

Arleen looked to one side, recollecting the scene. "We were in the hallway, near the bottom of the staircase. As she lunged at me I saw the dog-leads out of the corner of my eye, hanging on pegs on the opposite wall. I managed to grab one of them and got it around her neck. She forced me towards the lowest bannister and I wrapped one end of the lead around it, like a ship's rope on a bollard. Then I pulled both ends – and I pulled and I pulled. I shut my eyes of course and held on tight," said Arleen. "She made some horrible noises but when all the noise had stopped I opened my eyes again and let go of the lead. I didn't mean to kill her, Mr Barnaby. She just sort of fell down on the floor."

Tom took a few paces back. "Arleen," he said, "I'm afraid you will have to come with my colleagues to the police station."

"Oh, I know that," said Arleen. "I'm just so glad it's all over. But it was self-defence, Mr Barnaby, you do believe me, don't you?"

"What I believe," said Tom slowly, "is neither here nor there. It will be up to the jury to make their decision."


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

"So it was a heat of the moment crime?" asked Jones as he and Barnaby were driving back to the station, closely followed by the marked police car containing Arleen.

"They both were," said Tom. "I doubt if Muriel went round to Philip Reece's with the intention of killing him. She may have watched from her house and seen him leaving the pub after his session with Rose."

"And Philip let her in as a friend?"

"Friend or foe. Anyway, they knew each other. Muriel must have made one more demand for money, perhaps threatening to reveal his affair, and Philip must have said no, promising to print the article. She saw the heavy metal mortar there, with the place-mat that Arleen had put over it, and picked it up and - smash!"

"And the place-mat prevented her fingerprints from appearing on the mortar."

"Precisely so."

"But why didn't she take it away with her? After all, it was a vital piece of evidence."

"Think, Jones. It was in the heat of the moment. Muriel dropped the mortar and the place-mat and ran away. Later on she must have thought how important a clue it was and gone back for it. Spike saw her wearing gloves walking towards the house, carrying a shopping basket, about one o'clock in the morning."

"When she discovered that there had been a burglary."

"Which she let slip when she was talking to me this morning. Rose had not told her there had been a burglary and we never did. So she could only have known if she had been back to the scene of the crime."

"To pick up the mortar to use to frame Denny."

"And Denny knew the value of the mortar because he had been at the lecture, but Muriel didn't know that. Mrs Prendergast at the local village shop noticed that she was carrying a large wicker shopping basket with something heavy in it wrapped up in a tea-towel two days ago."

Barnaby drove for a moment in silence.

"What put you on to the business of the chihuahua that hadn't been paid for, sir?" asked Jones presently.

"Again, it was something Muriel said," said Tom. "She said that the last dog that Margot had bought had been very valuable. And that she was not sentimental about her dogs - what she _expected to get _in return was money. Most people would have said '_what I get in return' _. That set me thinking, and the letters you found in her study confirmed it."

. . . .

. . . .

. . . .

"Poor woman!" said Joyce after Tom had told her the essence of the case later that night.

"Which one, Muriel or Arleen?" asked Tom.

"Well - both, I suppose. But I was thinking of Arleen. She seemed so nice."

"I'm sure she was _nice _- but she still strangled another woman with a dog-lead."

"Oh, Tom!" said Joyce, putting down the mug of cocoa she had just made, "whatever is going to happen to all those little dogs?"

Tom smiled. "The R.S.P.C.A. will look after them until the next of kin comes forward," he said. "After that - there may be no more chihuahuas for sale in Midsomer Worthy."

Joyce took a sip of cocoa pensively.

"Tom, you don't think - "

"No, I do not," said Tom firmly. "I am not having any of those yapping little things in my house. They're vicious." Tom took up the _Causton Echo_ that was lying on the coffee-table and scanned it briefly. "No more murders?" he asked with an attempt at humour which was lost on Joyce. At that moment the telephone rang. Joyce looked displeased.

"Jones - hello! yes, something else to report?" There was then quite a pause while Jones said whatever he had to say. "You don't say!" said Tom at last. "Thank you very much for that information, and you have a good night too. That was Jones," he said, putting down the receiver. "Professor Stankiewicz has been arrested in London and charged with fraud. Apparently he regularly over-valued antique articles and charged the owners a commission based on the value he quoted. It came to light when several of the owners got only a fraction of his quotations when they sold their artefacts."

"So maybe the Hittite mortar wasn't worth so much after all?" asked Joyce.

"Maybe it wasn't," said Tom, smiling.

**THE END**


End file.
